“I was surprised to learn—”
Fergus jerked in surprise, banging his head on the wall behind. He almost dropped the bottle.
Doc stood in front of him. Harris Greene closed the door to the hall and leaned back against it.
Doc waited for Fergus to regain his composure. He started over. “I was surprised to learn that you were living in a place like this.”
Fergus stared at his visitors. They had to be here to shoot him, finally.
He said, “Can’t afford anything better. No one will hire me because you fired me.” He offered the bottle to Doc.
Doc shook his head. He sat in the chair—and sat farther down than he apparently expected to; his rear nearly met the floorboards. “No one will hire Fergus Bootblack, no. You could have left and changed your name. You didn’t.”
“I’m used to my name.”
“And it seems to me that Blackletter would want you. You’re good at what you do and have served him satisfactorily in the past. He’d pay you enough to live better than this.”
Fergus carefully capped the bottle and set it aside. It wouldn’t do to have something bad happen to it when he was shot. That would be unfair to a decent bottle of liquor. “His men offered.”
“And you refused. Checked in here under your true name. A stupid thing to do if you’ve recently disappointed someone like Duncan Blackletter. Why did you do it?”
He mumbled something inaudible.
“Why, Fergus?”
“Because I’m sorry.” Fergus covered his eyes. That way the sudden tears wouldn’t show. His drunkenness and weakness revolted him. “I’m sorry. Enough? Will you go now? Or at least shoot me?”
“I could do that. Or I could give you a chance to make it up to me.”
Fergus looked up without meaning to. Doc’s expression was calm, serious. Compromised, Fergus just wiped his eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“I want you to do something for me, Fergus. You might die doing it. But if you don’t—well, you’ll never work for me again, but I’ll give you a letter of recommendation from the Foundation. Worth gold in any profession. You’d be able to keep your name, maybe make it worth something again.”
Fergus licked dry lips. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go to Blackletter’s people. Tell them you’ve reconsidered. Tell them I denied you the last pay I owed you, so you broke into my floors to take what you were owed. And you saw some things you’re sure they’ll want to know about. Things that have driven up your asking price.” He considered. “Of course, they’ll want you to prove yourself. Harris had some ideas about that.”
It was the quietest bell of the night, the time when the milkmen begin their rounds, and the three men sitting in the car fidgeted in the third hour of their surveillance.
Then one came alert and pointed. “Here he is.”
Fergus looked up. Alastair Kornbock walked the final steps to the stoop of his building. The man’s step was brisk, his face merry. The bottle in his hand was still half-full.
He was to the top of the stairs and reaching for the front door handle when Fergus called his name.
He turned and saw Fergus and the other man as they emerged from the parked car. The driver remained in his seat and started the vehicle.
Alastair smiled drunkenly. “Grace, Fergus. Who is your friend?” Then his expression changed. “Wait, you’re—”
“Do it,” said the tall man.
Fergus gulped and brought up a short-barrelled revolver, aiming the iron sights at the center of Alastair’s stomach.
Alastair dropped his bottle and reached under his coat. He had his pistol in his hand before the bottle shattered.
Fergus squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked. Alastair staggered back, slamming into the doorway, breaking glass. Redness appeared over his heart. He slid down to sit against the door. His expression was shocked, pleading.
Fergus fired at Alastair’s heart. More redness erupted from the downed man’s stomach.
Alastair slumped to the side and his eyes closed.
“Not bad,” the tall man told Fergus. He took the gun out of Fergus’ hand. “Let’s go.”
Fergus stood there and shook. Idiot. He’d gotten the order wrong.
Clouds gathered before dawn and stayed to block the sun. Doc opened the hangar landing door to look up at them through his good eye.
Traces of green Gift-energy shot through them like lightning. He closed the landing door.
Alastair, beside him, asked, “Was I correct?”
“With your depressing regularity, yes. It’s a summoning. I don’t know what harm it can do, though. The building is shielded from lightning strikes.”
Alastair brought out his pocket watch and consulted it. “I hope they don’t wait too long. My stomach’s a bit twitchy.”
“It’s simply sore. Wearing the vest just makes being shot akin to being hit with a sledgehammer. Plus the explosives you had packed on it—what did Harris call them? Squibs.”
“Next time, you get to be shot.”
By noon, two bells, the sky was almost as black as night. The clouds hung heavy with rain. But not one drop fell on Neckerdam.
Doc’s windowless communications center was one floor up from the laboratories. A big room, it was nonetheless cramped with talk-boxes of every variety, shelves of partially disassembled electrical devices, tables, chairs, coils of copper wire. It smelled to Gaby of dust and ozone.
Gaby and Alastair sat side by side at the main table. She stared into her talk-box while he indifferently watched a panel of unlit lightbulbs.
“It would’ve been nice to have a few more days,” he said.
“Why?”
“We’d have to keep the deception up. Announce my death in the notices. I want to know who’d show up for my funeral.”
“Oh, you’d just want to pop out of your casket and scare everyone. How’s your chest?”
“Not bad. And I think I’m trimmer for hauling that monster of a vest around all those hours.”
The talk-box beeped, signal of an incoming call. Gaby frowned; the pitch of the beep said that it had not come through the Monarch Building switchboard, but was a direct call to one of the Foundation’s private numbers. She switched over to it.
A woman she vaguely recognized—middle-aged, rather faded-looking, friendly. “Goodlady Donohue?”
“Yes?”
“Grace. It’s Essyllt Tathlumwright.”
“Oh, yes. From the Beldon Hall of Records.” Gaby looked aside at Alastair. She wished he weren’t here to take this call, but she was on duty; she shouldn’t leave to take it on another talk-box. “What can I do for you?”
“Quite the reverse. I found the information you were looking for. All very public, just not where I expected it.”
“Wonderful.” Gaby dug out her notebook, ignored Alastair’s puzzled glance. “Please, go ahead.”
“Desmond MaqqRee, born One Sixteen M.X.R. Father unknown, mother Rowena Redcliff. Wed Dierdriu Legarra One Forty-Five M.X.R. They had a—”
“Father unknown?” Gaby tensed. She’d half-expected that answer but had hoped to be wrong.
“Well . . . technically, yes. Practically speaking, no.”
“What does that mean?”
“I did a little reading on Rowena Redcliff. She was the mistress of Prince Correus, Queen Maeve’s husband and consort. And ‘MaqqRee’ is a dialectal variant of High Cretanis; it means ‘son of the king.’ I think Goodsir MaqqRee’s paternity is probably well established . . . in the court of Cretanis, at any rate.”